


And I’m Just Now Finding Out

by mix_kid_ao3



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Autistic Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Genital Piercing, M/M, Nipple Piercings, Not Actually Unrequited Love, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Piercings, Pining, Tongue Piercings, and is 60 years older than you, but also that person ages super slowly, the nuances of loving someone since you were 18
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:29:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23236249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mix_kid_ao3/pseuds/mix_kid_ao3
Summary: There are a lot of things Geralt and Jaskier don’t know about each other, as told through Jaskier’s discovery of Geralt’s various body piercings.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 165





	1. There's a Shape To Your Words

There's a glint when Geralt talks—or rather, when he yells.

It takes Jaskier a frankly ungodly amount of time to notice the glint but he can hardly be blamed. Geralt is rare to respond and rarer still to verbalize. When he does speak he mumbles and avoids eye contact, focusing his attention on the table, his lap, the wilderness surrounding them instead. In short, Geralt's body language does not facilitate casually having a peak into his mouth. 

It's three weeks before he notices it the first time and two months more before Jaskier gets a good look. 

Geralt is anxious, about what is anyone's guess. He paces the camp, triple-checking that they haven't left anything. When he doesn't find anything he sifts through the saddlebags again, angrily swatting silver locks out of his eyes. His hair is tousled from running his hands through it and if he didn't look so murderous Jaskier might go so far as to say it's pretty. 

"You've checked a dozen times," the bard huffs. "Nothing is missing let's go—"

Geralt turns to Jaskier, tension building in every muscle. He stalks closer, fists clenched, and growls out, "Shut the fuck up." 

Jaskier swallows thickly and nods. It's clear they aren't moving until Geralt gets over whatever compulsion he's soothing and there's no way they're making it to the town they'd planned to so he sets himself on a boulder and pulls out his lute. He practices scales until he gets bored then moves on to a song that's been giving him trouble. The base is there but something isn't flowing right and the only way to fix it is to play the section with minor variations until it does. Twentytwo-ish run throughs in Geralt moves to stand in front of him. Jaskier looks up, absently noting the sun is in a different position than it had been when he started.

"Can I help you?" He drawls. The witcher nods silently and Jaskier tilts his head to ask what with only to yell indignantly when Geralt snatches his lute from his lap. "What the fuck?" 

"I told you to shut up. Grab the rest of your things we're leaving," he snaps. 

Jaskier's eyes widen as he catches sight of the metal bead sitting on Geralt's tongue. Momentarily distracted from the mistreatment of his lute a thought crosses Jaskier's mind. _Sweet Melitele I'd love to know what that feels like._

Jaskier shakes himself free of the thought, as delicious as it is it's also dangerous. When he comes back to himself the bard takes back his lute, glaring at the witcher and whining about proper care. While they walk his thoughts linger on the silver stud, wondering if it has something to do with being a witcher or if it's something Geralt had thought important enough to undergo on his own. The thought strikes something in Jaskier and he files the information away for another time.


	2. The Rise And Fall

Jaskier scans the crowd, nerves and soreness long-settled between his shoulder blades. After hours of playing his fingers are beginning to ache and his hips are locking up. Geralt still isn't back from his most recent contract and the anxiety that's been gnawing at the bard all day is taking its toll. 

The witcher had been in a mood when he left: eyes wild but not meeting anyone else's, hands fidgeting with the studs on his armor, unresponsive even after extensive cajoling. In the near eight months they've been traveling together Jaskier has come to accept this as a quirk of his witcher companion, however, the habit does have the unfortunate result of obstructing the exchange of information. In all honesty, Jaskier hasn't the foggiest why they're in this town or where Geralt has run off too. 

Geralt has been gone for days at a time before but those instances usually come with some sort of forewarning. The village is far too lively to indicate an excessively dangerous problem, making it all the more worrisome that Geralt has yet to make an appearance. 

Jaskier's fingers pluck out the last notes of a song before he excuses himself to the bar. A brunette moves into his space rather quickly. She's a pretty girl with curly brown hair, or so Jaskier thinks until he hears the boy speak. It's not often he gets propositioned by boys, and Jaskier spares himself a moment of self-pity when he recognizes he's too worked up to pursue the opportunity. The boy is persistent nonetheless and he makes Jaskier laugh so he takes the much needed distraction and attempts to forget the witcher for the moment. 

Just when the bard feels he might be loosened up enough to follow the boy upstairs the tavern door is thrown open. Geralt stands in the doorway, blood caked to his skin and hair. Jaskier can't tell from this distance if the blood is Geralt's or not but his body reacts automatically, rushing to catch the witcher. He doesn't fall but worry compels Jaskier to support him up the stairs regardless. 

In their room, Jaskier gets to work removing Geralt's armor before the man can protest. He grunts and scowls but makes no move to stop the bard. There are only a couple of bloodstains on his shirt, none of them appearing to be from Geralt himself. Still, something nags at Jaskier to look closer, to smooth his hands over thick muscle until he's certain there's no further injury. 

Jaskier pulls off the witcher's shirt, a bold move even for him. Geralt makes a noise when his arms a lifted with the shirt but doesn't make to hit him, which Jaskier counts as an all around success. He reaches to touch Geralt's sides then stops. 

There are silver barbells through Geralt's nipples, strikingly similar to the one Jaskier had discovered in his tongue all those months ago. Jaskier feels his face flush and has to adjust his stance. As much as he tries to ignore them his eyes have a mind of their own and drift back to watch how the studs move with Geralt's breathing. His hands don't stray from their platonic prodding but they itch to pull at the twinkling bars. He thinks he might very much like to bite one, to taste the mix of metal and sweat from Geralt's skin. 

It's a delicious and dangerous thought indeed.

He's able to pull him back to the task at hand when he touches Geralt's left shoulder. It's alarmingly stiff from his neck down most of his back and side. He presses on Geralt's side trying to gauge how serious it is and feels Geralt's whole body twitch.

"How long has this been hurting you," Jaskier demands. 

Geralt looks away and shrugs. The bard pushes, hard this time, and Geralt cringes into himself. 

"Fuck! It always hurts, it's not usually this bad."

Jaskier pays no heed to the glares Geralt sends his way, instead grabbing his oils and testing the smells on his wrist. He hears movement behind him and feels annoyance well in him.

"Don't even think about putting that disgusting rag back on, Geralt of Rivia."

Geralt gives a boarish huff, his own annoyance building. Jaskier settles on a peppermint scented oil and turns back to the man. With a fair amount of manhandling Jaskier gets Geralt onto his side. He rolls the bottle between his hands before pouring the oil onto the witcher's skin. He starts with Geralt's back, kneading and pushing little sections until they're warmed enough for him to start somewhere else. It's time consuming and the closer he gets to Geralt's shoulder the tougher the muscle is. When he's done what he can for Geralt's back his forearms shine. 

His side and underarm are no less grueling, and Jaskier finds himself sweating with the exertion. Geralt's neck is by far the tensest, evident by the way his body shakes every time the bard touches it. Jaskier thinks in another context this could be very satisfying. When he finally gets to the shoulder itself he imagines he can hear Geralt's teeth creaking in his jaw, and he's reminded that he's helping his much older friend alleviate pain, not indulging a partner. 

Still, the image of Geralt shaking under him as he works oil into the man's skin stays with Jaskier. The moment is made sweeter when Geralt rolls his shoulder, wonder in his eyes, and grunts a soft thanks. 

Delicious and dangerous thoughts seem to be a constant when it comes to Geralt. Yet again, Jaskier packs his thoughts away for later.


	3. Eight Bars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this done for weeks but I forgot to post it because I was having so much trouble with the 5th chapter ToT but here it is now

Jaskier is in shock. 

Geralt is bent over a table, pants down and weight resting on his elbows. A lovely flush colors his face and chest as he resolutely stares ahead and ignores Jaskier. Less lovely, the skin of his thighs and ass is red and purple with abuse. 

It had been clear something was wrong since they had reconvened for the spring. Geralt had been irritable, which Jaskier had written off as being grumpy at not having been able to make it to Kaer Morhen before the passes filled with snow. Aside from his prickly demeanor, Geralt's gait had been off, tentative almost. Concern had tugged at Jaskier's insides for weeks before Geralt had approached him acting like he was signing his own death warrant by asking for help.

The saddle rash on Geralt's upper thighs is some of the worst Jaskier has ever seen. The skin is rubbed cherry red from knee to ass. It's broken in places, likely where it had blistered and been ignored. Jaskier thinks the witcher has to be a masochist to have ignored the rash half as long as it must have taken to cultivate, the thought only solidified when he incidentally catches a glimpse of Geralt's cock and the eight bars going through its underside. 

_Eight bars?_ The bard struggles to keep himself composed enough to open the jar of salve as the majority of his blood makes a sudden detour south. _What the fuck._

Geralt is hot under his hands, alarmingly so, and Jaskier doesn't know how to feel about the fact. He starts high with the salve and works his way down Geralt's backside. Even as the witcher shifts his weight in discomfort Jaskier can't help but appreciate the swell of his ass, the curve of his thighs. Something in the back of his mind whispers at him to pinch at the abraded skin just to hear the usually quiet man gasp but he shoves the thought away. When he kneels to get a better look at the insides of Geralt's thighs he gets a second peak at those shining barbells. 

Jaskier has always felt the urge to put his mouth on Geralt but seeing those silver balls stokes the desire into a need. He's curious about how deep into his throat he could take the witcher, how it would feel when the balls started knocking at his teeth, how they would feel _inside_ him. He's nearly always known Geralt is bigger than most, you didn't travel in close quarters with anyone without learning a thing or two about what they look like naked, but he'd never actually gotten a good look, and what a sight it is.

He remembers being eighteen, singing in a tavern in the middle of nowhere hoping his parents hadn't sent anyone to find him after his graduation and seeing Geralt for the first time. He'd wanted the witcher then, and he wants him now. He'd held fantasies then that Geralt was so calloused toward him because of his age, but he knows that's not the case. He's twenty-five, a fully-fledged man now, and nothing has changed. He's always wanted, and he's always convinced himself it wasn't the right time, now is no different. 

Jaskier keeps his touches chaste as he gets closer to Geralt's manhood. When he's done he wordlessly turns to wipe his hands on a cloth while Geralt makes himself decent. The bard feels a pull in his chest when he turns to see that even after his clothes are fixed a rose dusting lingers on Geralt's cheeks and neck. By Lilit, it makes him want to kiss the witcher silly. Instead, he makes a weak excuse about being tipsy from the ale they'd shared earlier and needing to find a privy. 

In the hallway he sighs, emotions warring as he tries to iron out his thoughts. He sifts through his memory, thinking on all the times he's wanted Geralt over the years. The moments had gradually lost their danger, but the delicacy had turned bittersweet. 

He doesn't go back to the room that night. Rather, he finds a mountain of a blacksmith at the tavern and touches the man in all the places he wants to touch his witcher.


End file.
